“What—in jail? I’ve been there, but not a prisoner. To see prisoners.”
“You couldn’t know, then, the way prisoners feel. I know. I reckon most women know. But now I’m out of jail. I’m free.”
He could not answer; her eyes flashed as they narrowed, and she fairly glared at him in the intensity of her declaration.
“Oh, you couldn’t know,” she laughed, “but that’s the way I feel. I’m free! Isn’t the river beautiful to-day? I’m like the river––”
“Which is kept between two banks?” he suggested.
“I was wrong,” she shook her head. “I’m a bird––”
“I can well admit that,” he laughed.
“Oh,” she cried, in mock rebuke, “the idea!”
“It’s your own—and a very brilliant one,” he retorted, and they laughed together.
There was no resisting the gale of Nelia Crete’s effervescent spirits. It was clear that she had burst through bonds of restraint that had imprisoned her soul for years. Terabon was too acute an observer to frighten the sensitive exhilaration. It would pass—he was only too sure of that. What would follow?